


Before We Go

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Incest, M/M, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is up with Bro, but he won't explain. Instead, he drives Dave hundreds of miles to a remote motel and they have a bonding deeper than family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before We Go

You know something is wrong the minute you hear the staccato rap of knuckles on your door.

Of course it’s Bro; there’s no one else it could be. But the mere fact he’s knocking instead of just zipping in at lightning speed, doing as he pleases – that’s what worries you. What happened to make Bro actually extend some form of respect?

You clear your throat awkwardly, but your voice is chill as the ice in your apple juice as you answer. “Come in.”

The door opened and Bro sticks his head in, expression impassive as always. “Pack your shit.”

You just stare. “Why?”

“We’re going on vacation for a while,” he replies in a tone that leaves no room for argument. To anyone else he’d seem just as nonchalant and blasé as ever; you know better. You know your brother well enough to notice the harder set in his jaw, the slight tension in his eyebrows above those impossibly pointy sunglasses.

“Okay.” You mirror Bro’s poker face, but inside your curiosity is tearing you up. What the fuck happened?

 

 

There’s a bright red sports car waiting outside when you get out of the high rise and to the curb. Pulling on the brim of his baseball cap to readjust it, Bro vaults himself over the passenger door and slides into the driver’s seat without a word. You follow without his theatrics. Something in his body language worries you more than you’d like to let on, and you aren’t interested in pointless dick-swinging contests right now.

The only sounds in the next few minutes are the impatient purr of the engine as the key is turned in the ignition and the sound of tires crunching across gravel and debris on the asphalt when Bro pulls out into the road.

He drives for an hour before either of you speak. The world around you is barren landscape, sun-baked earth dotted with scrubby yellow weeds. If it weren’t for the created wind against your face from driving upwards of eighty miles an hour, the sun would be unbearable. You forgot to pack sunscreen. You hope you won’t need it.

“Where are we going?” you finally hazard to ask.

Bro is quiet and still, no movement but the slight wrist jerks as he makes miniscule adjustments with the wheel. You immediately feel guilty for cutting into the silence, and avert your eyes despite their shaded shield; outside there’s still nothing but desert and questions.

“Not sure yet.”

It’s embarrassing, but his voice makes you jump. You cover it by turning the end of the movement into a smooth turn back in Bro’s direction. “No idea at all then.”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

Unease descends on you now, but you pretend everything is peachy, fuzzy and yellow like a week old jaundiced baby. No need to make a scene. There’s no one around but you, your brother, and the great unknown, and the unknown is likely to be the more understanding. You want desperately to fill the silence with something to distract the cold dread that’s dripping down your spine, but you’d rather you remain without a black eye.

Apparently the distinct lack of sound is grating on Bro too, because he removes a hand from the wheel to lean over and turn on the radio. For a fleeting moment you think he’s going to touch you and your heart jumps into your throat. You feel silly when all that results from the action are the bawdy lyrics of some pulp pop song clambering from the speaker system. The music trails behind the car like a ribbon of smoke, leaving an auditory path of breadcrumbs.

Speech is lost on the wind until you pull into a Super 8 a solid chuck of time later. You’re no longer sure what time it is, but the sun is low on the horizon, painting the world in hues of crimson and tangerine.

Room 13. You watch as the man at the front desk hands over an old beat-up keycard. Bro twirls it between his fingers absentmindedly as he slides it into his back pocket. The corner peeks out from a small horn worn in the denim.

It occurs to you that this is the first time you’ve ever spent the night at a place other than your own room or one of Bro’s lineup of cars over the years.

Crickets sing from the bushes lining the sidewalk outside the motel rooms, undercut by the dull sound of the wheels of your suitcase as you drag it along the concrete. Bro still hasn’t said anything except uninterested recognition of the front desk’s questions. His posture is subdued, but there’s still a power fluctuating underneath his skin, like a tiger pacing in a cage. You stare at his back for a while and the rolling of muscles under the thin white polo, but then default your gaze to your shoes, feeling more insignificant than you have in days.

Bro throws his suitcase unceremoniously on the bed when you reach the room, but doesn’t kick off his shoes. It’s a double, the only bed in the room. Anxiety, crawling like ants, scratches vaguely at your lungs.

“Don’t leave. I’ll be back.”

And then he’s gone, and you’re left to process what exactly was happening on your own.

First order of business: you dump your suitcase by the door and schlep off your shoes. The socks stay on; who knows what kind of filth could be in the carpet?

The bed is small, but comfortable enough. You ignore Bro’s suitcase despite the urges to move it. There’s a television on the wall facing the foot of the bed. A dustless area on the bedside table denotes the area the remote should be. It doesn’t appear to be in the room.

Nothing is on TV. Fuzzy static colors dance in front of your eyes as you sit close enough to cycle through the channels over and over, but nothing catches your attention. Finally you leave it on a movie, just for the background sound.

The pillows smell fresh, at least. Burrowed nose-deep in the goose feathers, you almost don’t hear the door click as Bro reenters. He gets your attention anyway by throwing something hard at your head. You jump again despite yourself and jolt upright, rubbing the back of your cranium as you look to see what he’s thrown at you: a box of apple juice.

You hold it carefully, blinking down with confusion. He got you a juicebox. You’re not sure why, but this is the most disconcerting thing that’s happened all day. You look at him, a question on your lips, and he answers with a wry smirk and an apologetic tip of the head. A flush of happiness at the rare gesture of affection zips through you, and you can’t help the smile that momentarily breaks your poker face.

“I bought sandwiches, too,” Bro says as he cracks open a Pabst bottle with his teeth. The rest of a six-pack and a plastic grocery bag with a receipt stapled to the front are sitting innocently on the little table by the door.

“Ham and cheddar?” You will yourself to find this conversation normal so you can keep your voice steady.

“One of them, yeah.”

He remembered your favorite sandwich, too. Another jolt of glee shoots its way through your abdomen as you roll off the bed and pad in your socks to the table to retrieve your food.

“The shit is this?”

Bro found the TV. You shrug and tuck into your sandwich, too concerned with your greedy stomach to answer at the moment. He flicks it off and takes a gulp of his beer, cleaning the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand. The bed sinks under his weight as he sits on it, finally kicking his shoes off toward the television stand. He flexes his toes and you finally stab the straw into the apple juice and begin to suck out the insides.

After a moment, Bro sprawls backward, feet still hanging off the edge of the bed, beer carefully balanced. His free hand pulls off his baseball cap and he rubs through his hair, the leather pulled tight over his palm smearing his sweat. You watch him, grateful for the protection of sunglasses that leave your gaze ambiguous. You can’t remember the last time you saw him without the hat.

“So are you gonna ask why we’re here?” He seems almost impatient, disappointed in you somehow.

“I figured you’d just tell me whenever you felt like it,” you reply dumbly.

“Eh.” He rolls over to face you, although you can’t tell if he’s giving you eye contact or not. The ambiguity of shades goes both ways. “Didn’t pay our taxes last year. Fuckers have been calling me nonstop. So here we are for a while. Don’t complain.”

Truthfully, you’re not sure what to think of this, but you’re not going to fuss. At least, not unless he decides living in close quarters with his little bro is good enough reason to beat the crap out of you even more regularly. Until then, you’re going to view this just as much the vacation he claimed it to be at first.

You roll a shoulder to show your lack of concern. “How long, do you think?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ve got two grand in cash, so we’re set for a while.”

Damn. You figure this isn’t the first time he’s done something this illegal. Your ignorance is proof enough of his evasive skill.

Silence again. It’s filled with the same steeled tension that commands the space between you whenever you’re not fighting together. The sounds of eating and in Bro’s case, tapping on the edge of his beer bottle, take the edge off, but you’re still hyper aware of how close he is, every movement, your lack of weaponry in case he decides to attack you on a whim. He lay there like the dead, but you know how quickly he can spring to action.

Another beat. “Did you bring the swords?” The words are leaping from your throat unbidden before you can draw them back.

He stares at you, or at least it feels like he’s staring at you. Then he rolls over, onto his back, face pointed toward the ceiling. Beer still balanced, other hand scratching over the muscles in his taut abdomen. It’s a lazy motion, but still calculated, so slow and deliberate.

“No.” That’s all he says. No explanations for why not. You should be relieved by this, but somehow you’re not. There’s still a tightness in the deepest part of you, an excitement you’d rather not put a name to.

You watch him continue scratching his stomach. Your sandwich and apple juice are gone. Bro sits up and takes another sip of his beer, staring at the wall.

 

 

“You’re quiet today,” Bro muses after a while.

You’re still sitting at the little table, trying not to stare at him as he downs yet another beer. You don’t know all that much about alcohol but it seems like a bad idea to drink as much as he is.

“Yeah, so?” you snark at him, suddenly frustrated beyond belief at everything he’s put you through today.

“So, you’re usually going off a mile a minute.” He’s facing you again, head cocked slightly to the right, mouth and eyebrows quirked in something that might be concern.

“And you care because?”

“’Cause you’re a little shit but you’re my little shit, obviously.”

You huff and face the window. Maybe if you stare out at the sticky black night long enough the heat will leave your face. It makes no sense, how he can say the stupidest, meanest things and still affect you like this.

“Hey, Dave, m’sorry.”

His apologies fall on air thick with unspoken regrets and the emotional distance between you is painful. He never apologizes. Why is he doing it now?

The only explanation you can come up with that doesn’t make you want to cry like a pussy-whipped wimp is that he’s drunk. More frustration fills you instead and you snap at him without thinking.

“Oh, so that word is in your vocabulary. I wasn’t sure.” There’s so much animosity and venom behind those words that you surprise yourself.

A few beats of silence, and you’re sure he’s going to say something, that he will actually make you cry and you brace yourself, but the moment passes and all that’s present of a reaction is a single one-shoulder shrug.

You want so badly to be out under the stars where there’s fresh air, but you stay in the uncomfortable wood chair and sulk.

 

 

The clock on the bedside is broken. It’s stayed a consistent nine-oh-six for the last few hours. Empty beer bottles litter the floor around the bed, where you’re curled up tightly under the sheets, watching late night television with only fleeting interest.

Bro is in the bathroom. The walls are thin enough you can hear him as he unzips his jeans and empties his bladder into the toilet. The sheets feel too thin suddenly, and you curl up even tighter. The man on the television, fuzzy with cable static, drones about something unimportant but you still try to train your waning concentration on the fluid shapes of his mouth.

You are not going to think about your brother in the bathroom. You are not going to think about his hands in those gloves or how they slowly unzip his pants or pull himself out or.

No, definitely not. Shut up brain.

Your fingernails dig into your arm to draw your attention away, and you wince slightly. It’s enough, though, and you breathe a sigh of relief, putting up barriers and staring with rekindled rapt attention at the anchorman talking about a three car pile-up on I-35.

At least until Bro comes back out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of frilly pink boyshorts and his shades.

You always kind of assumed he was pretty normal when it came to underwear choice, but apparently he takes his irony all the way. The boyshorts are snug, caressing every line of his body, and really don’t leave much to the imagination. You curl up tighter, hoping beyond hope he won’t notice how you have the weirdest boner right now.

He barely gives you enough time to prepare yourself before he slumps into the bed, rolling over and reaching toward you. Oh fuck, oh Christ, what is he doing? Hyperventilation sends your lungs close to bursting as he pulls you to his bare chest, nose buried deep into your hair.

“M’sorry Dave, m’so sorry,” he mutters. You don’t dare move. He’s so warm behind you, muscled flesh agonizingly close beyond the thin cotton layer of your shirt.

“Bro,” you squeak, kicking yourself for your lack of vocal composure. “Bro, what are you doing?”

“V’fucked up everything, I know, m’sorry, fuck.” His voice is choked with emotion. You turn to look at him, something akin to panic squeezing at your chest. He can’t be crying. He’s the emotionless, stoic one. He doesn’t give a shit about you and he doesn’t cry.

But he is. There are definite tear tracks glistening on his face, trailing from the eyes you know are hiding beyond his sunglasses.

You have never dealt with anything like this before and you have no idea what to do.

He yanks his shades off to rub at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Everything about this is wrong. He shouldn’t be crying and he most definitely should not be baring his eyes to you. A tight anxiety is back, constricting your organs in a death embrace. He’s looking at you, eyes doleful and so, so sad, gleaming with wetness.

“Dave,” he whispers, or he tries to whisper. His voice is too loud on your already-thundering eardrums. “Dave, I love you.”

“Don’t,” you find yourself rasping, suddenly finding the strength to try to push him away. “Don’t, you’re drunk, this is – don’t.” You’re not going to cry. You’re not.

He pulls you closer despite your attempts at freeing yourself. The contact between you is shimmering with tremors. You’re not sure who’s the culprit, because the unsteady feeling seems to be everywhere.

“Don’t,” you say again, without fire this time, giving in to the sensation of his arms around you. His hand finds your hair and it stays there, stroking softly. You are not going to cry.

“I barely have any time anymore…” he mutters against your forehead. “Wasted all this damn time. Now you’ll never know… shit. Shit, I shouldn’t’ve… I’m such a bad guardian. Fucking Christ, Dave, forgive me.”

Forgiveness spills from your lips like the tears you can’t keep in your eyes, and now you’re hugging him back, face pressed to his chest. You’re getting him wet, he’s getting you wet, and you are a miserable wreck, but it’s okay, because Bro is here and sturdy next to you and he’s not letting go.

And then he’s pushing you over onto your back and you make the most unmanly sound of surprise as he crawls over you, a new kind of desperation sparking the red of his eyes to flame. Another muttered apology and then his lips are on yours, and you’re too surprised to push him away. To be honest, you don’t know if you want to.

You’ve never tasted alcohol, but the flavor is unmistakable on his tongue. It’s unpleasant in an adult-pleasures kind of way, and you stubbornly want more of it. You’re kissing back now, pressing up against him, arms looped back around his head to keep him there.

As if he’s going to leave anytime soon. His hands are on either side of your face, cradling with a gentleness you never would have expected from him. Every slide of his tongue is a confession, a plea for approval and consent. You’re not sure when you started trembling again but you pull him closer to you to distract from it, hoping his heat will whisk away the sudden bone-deep chill.

His hands are creeping up the back of your shirt, and you gasp through your nose. He pulls away, pressing small, butterfly-soft kisses to your jaw, eyebrows knit together tightly with guilt. Your chest heaves with an influx of oxygen and you’re barely able to force out the words colliding against each other in your scattered mind.

“Bro, what are we… what is this? What are we doing?” Pokerfaces are damned, the shades still sitting on your nose a laughable charade of uncouth chill. There is nothing chill about you right now as you force yourself to calm down and think this through and ignore the way every feathery kiss is sending flutters through your veins.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Dave, fuck, we don’t have any time, I’m going to fucking lose you…” His voice catches in his throat and his grip on your ears shifts, tighter but still oh-so-careful, as if he’s afraid he’s going to break you.

You shove down the fear that arises at his words. You can remain calm, you’re sober, you’re the completely lucid one here. “I don’t understand, Bro.”

“You will, god, you will.” And his lips are on yours again, no less desperate but less invasive, each lingering kiss a new reminder of how much he truly cares.

It all comes crashing down, then, the pain and anguish and bitter resentment and sharp tension between you, in all the years you’ve been alive to remember. You don’t know how far he wants to take this, but you’re willing to give him your all, to show him you still care, too. He’s your brother, dammit, and you’ll always love him, even if you hate him sometimes. Even if this iteration of love is illegal and against every moral fiber you possess. You’ve always been the imitation to his original, following his lead in every area you’re unsure of, adding your own personal flair on your failures along the way. It’s only natural he’d show you your way around your body.

He pulls back, tugging at your shirt almost reluctantly. You wiggle out of it for him, shrinking in on yourself at the immediate backlash of self-consciousness. You try not to compare your bodies, you’ve always tried not to, but it’s hard to avoid when they’re side by side like this, perfect physique and scrawny stick-frame, like a superhero and his dorky sidekick.

Apparently he doesn’t care, because his mouth is immediately on your nipple, rolling it between his teeth, and you’re arching your back and swearing in a language all your own. Your hands are in his hair, grasping needily and twisting among the locks of pale blond, holding on for dear life as if this is the only anchor to keep you from floating off.

His hands are all over your sides, caressing up and down. It strike you how bare they are, free of leather gloves you’re so used to seeing. He’s so damn bare in so many ways it sends a shiver down your spine and you find yourself murmuring a plea for more.

A palm strays downward, brushing over your jeans, and you bite back a groan. He hums, an encouragement, fingers fumbling drunkenly at the button. You’d reach down to help him, but you don’t think you can remove your hands from his hair, the way your fingers are so tight and shaky against his scalp.

 His free hand strokes circles in your hip and his mouth moves south, murmuring calming words against your navel. You force yourself to breathe, in and out and in again in an attempt to slow down, to let some of the nervous rigidity bleed out of you and show him you really do trust him, crazily enough. But this goes so far against the grain of what you’re used to doing around him. Any time he’s touching you this closely it’s with connecting fists meant to bruise. Actually, this new unknown interaction is throwing you for a loop, and you feel almost detached, dreamlike.

“MmBro? What’re you gonna…” You can’t quite finish the thought, not with the way he’s divested you of your pants and his hand is stroking you closer, only guise of modesty the thin pair of cotton boxers covering your erection.

“Damn, I love you,” and the words almost sound like a prayer the way they fall from his lips in a hushed, awestruck murmur. “Y’must hate me… All the shit’ve put you through…”

“No,” you’re quick to answer. You don’t want him to think that for a second. You find the muscles in your hands again and rub his head a little, trying to communicate the words that are stuck in your throat. “I don’t hate you.”

He hums a little in acknowledgement, kissing the line of your hip bone where it disappears into your boxers. Your breath hitches and you try not to squirm with the impatience that’s making your skin simmer.

Somehow in the last few minutes, Bro’s made a spot for himself between your legs, which are spread awkwardly, knees pointed toward the ceiling. Nervous wings beat in your intestines at the implications, but you hold onto that trust. You don’t believe Bro would purposefully hurt you like this. You can’t imagine he’d take something you weren’t completely ready for.

You forget how to breathe when he trails kisses back up your chest and onto your neck, sucking and mouthing sloppily against your jugular as he lowers his groin onto yours and moves. An entirely unironic whimper squeaks past your teeth, but his only reaction is to nibble the skin he’s working on, a playful gesture meant to keep you on your toes, like always.

“Just, do what you’re gonna do and get it, nngh, over with,” you find yourself panting, clutching his head a little too tightly. You feel like you’re going to fall off the bed or maybe off the earth if you’re not careful. Every nerve ending is an electric storm and you’ve never felt this simultaneously good and tortured in your life.

“You don’t enjoy this?” He sounds almost hurt, pausing the motions of both his mouth and his hips against yours. You squirm at the lack of contact.

“I do, but, fuck, this is, just.” You are so frustrated. You refuse to beg, you will not ask him to do the things to you that are making your heart pound even faster, you will not look like the stupid inexperienced kid that you are.

He seems to get your meaning anyway, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips as he slips out of his underwear. Suddenly your vision is assaulted by his completely naked form and you would be feeling entirely inadequate if you weren’t distracted by how ungodly gorgeous he is. You can’t estimate accurately but you’re positive he’s way above average, and there’s a metal ring glinting from the head. Christ, he’s decorated, too.

And then his hands are on you again, and your boxers are sliding off and shit shit shit you can’t hide from him now. Your hands subconsciously go up to cling to your shades, holding them on for dear life: bodily intimacy is one thing, but you can’t surrender the last piece of the wall you’re keeping up between you for sanity, you can’t.

But then he reaches up and carefully, gently plucks them from you and you’re staring into his eyes, and even though his gaze is glassy and definitely drunk, there’s still a concentration and a knowledge there that makes you realize this isn’t just a bad drunken decision. He’s been thinking about this for a while.

There’s a mutual understanding that stretches into what seems like hours as you hold each other’s gaze, unblinking. You don’t know about him, but you feel like if you blink first, you’ll be losing some unspoken battle you don’t quite understand. In the end it doesn’t matter, as he leans in to capture your mouth tenderly and your eyes shut of their own accord.

This should be making you want to run, to scream and fight and never look back, but you’re just a cocoon of buzzing heat and pleasure, and maybe it’s a little premature for you to saw your way out of the sticky silk surrounding you but if it’s Bro that’s helping you, you’re not afraid to stretch your wings a little early.

He settles over you again, hot skin against hot skin. You can barely stand the blatant closeness of the moment. You both want to push him away and pull him close enough to you so that you meld together, but that thought almost terrifies you. He’s kissing you again and again, though, and there’s not much room in your mind to dwell on your misgivings.

A hand settles between you, dangerously close to your arousal. You hold your breath as he smoothes a thumb over it, testing the waters. When he realizes you’re not going to push him away, he grasps you firmly, applying a few strokes until you’re panting beneath him, biting your lip to keep from begging for more.

He pulls away to spit in his palm and you almost complain but then it’s back and he’s grasping you both together, slight rocking of his hips to give you more friction, and you can’t handle watching it and feeling it and being here so you settle for closing your eyes, shutting out one stimulant before your mind explodes. It’s so different being touched by someone else, someone with such expert flicks of the hand and just the right amount of pressure. You can’t believe you used to think a quick jerk off into a tissue was good. That was nothing compared to this.

You’re aware of a constant keening and it takes you a while to figure out that’s you. Everything is disconnected in the most beautiful way, all converging on the white hot point of Bro’s hand on you, his length against yours, his mouth back on your neck. You let your body’s instincts take over and rut against him, clinging to his shoulders as close as you can. If you were in your right mind you’d be entirely too embarrassed over the sounds you’re making, but right now you couldn’t care less, as long as Bro doesn’t stop.

Word swim through the haze of your concentration and you struggle to make a place for them in your understanding. The most you can make of it is professions of love over and over, apologies like a bullet storm, soft swears when you grab him particularly tight. Your noises are turning into a broken wordless ballad made only sensical by his name piercing the rhythm of sound. The pace of his hand speeds, he grinds harder, and you’re clinging to more than just him now. There are stars forming behind your eyes and you can feel the tension rising into a bright and painfully perfect culmination.

Your voice becomes urgent, stumbling over a warning as you breach the point of no return, but he doesn’t stop or slow or move away and then you’re spattering him, covering his hand. He still doesn’t stop, pulling at you until you’re sure you can’t take any more and you’re almost crying, laments ripping hard from your throat, and then he’s adding his mess to yours, teeth digging into your collarbone with a soft curse.

You can’t quite catch your breath and it feels like you’re living in a fog, but then your body almost seems to give a big sigh of completion and you feel weightless, like jelly, completely content not to move ever again. Bro is heavy on you, but it’s a comforting weight, and his breath is slowly matching yours, sharing the same in and out, a simple but somehow profound connection.

Your grasp on language is coming back to you, and the words tumble with unironic affection into Bro’s ear where it sits beside your cheek. “I love you too.” Your heart squeezes with irrational worry of rejection, but the afterglow is enough to keep it from taking over you completely. Bro presses another kiss to your bruised throat and noses your ear.

“M’sorry, that was fucked up. Shouldn’ve done it.”

“Pfft, what the fuck ever,” you murmur lightly. “I don’t even care if it was just ‘cause you’re drunk.” Something suddenly occurs to you, and then the stab of worry is real, something you can’t just brush off. “…You’re not going to forget about this, are you?”

“Fuck no, m’not that drunk.”

“Oh.” You want to pretend that’s not as relieving as it is, but you’re too much a pile of goo right now to attempt a pokerface.

He nuzzles you again and then the soft grind of a snore rumbles against your skin. You shift carefully, pulling out from under him and curling against his side, lost in your thoughts. Consequence of what you two just did, ruminating on all the cryptic words Bro kept repeating. What did he mean, you didn’t have any time, he was going to lose you?

There’s no way you’re going to be able to sleep tonight.

Cold dread seizes you and you press closer to his heat, ear flush against him to hear his steady heartbeat pick out the seconds. It triggers an odd combination of comfort and anxiety, but the comfort wins out in the end and you find yourself calming again. It would be okay. Bro was just waxing apocalyptical because he’s drunk.

You keep telling yourself that as you finally slip beneath the deep purple sheet of sleep, adding your own soft murmurs to Bro’s snoring.

 

 

Morning assaults you via sunbeam through the window. You claw groggily for your shades, forgetting where Bro put them the night before. Bro slumbers on beside you, still lost to the world, face down in pillow. At least it blocks out some of his horrendous snoring.

You finally locate the shades and there’s a surge of immediate relief once they’re covering your sensitive eyes. Clothing is still an issue, but it’s pretty early and you don’t really feel like getting up, anyway. You snuggle into Bro’s side again forcefully, earning a disgruntled harrumph muffled by the pillow.

“Morning, shithead,” you say, a little less sarcastic and a little more affectionate than normal, but that’s okay. It’s less vulnerable than you were last night, so it doesn’t matter much to you right now.

“Ugh, turn your voice down, some people have headaches.”

“Shouldn’t’ve drank so much, idiot.”

“Hey, don’t knock the alcoholism, sometimes it’s needed.”

“What, you needed it so you would get over the fact that fucking your brother is wrong?”

You crossed a line there, but you need to know exactly how he felt about it. Shame and all the tension you staved off the night before fills every empty space and crevasse between you, and you suddenly deeply regret asking.

“I’m sorry, shit, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you’re probably totally lost by now, right?” He sighs and props himself up, wincing at the sunlight. You fetch him his shades and he gives you an appreciative smile. “Thanks.” He clears his throat, face settling back into a serious, unreadable blank. “I’m fucking sorry for last night and we can forget about it if you want.”

“Oh, fuck – no way, Bro, I just want to know what the fuck you were thinking.”

He shrugs a little, but you can see a tremor of something insecure in the motion. Either it’s the hangover or the subject matter, but he’s having a hard time keeping his usual unreadable mask up. “There’s shit brewing,” he says curtly, looking away from you, “and hell if I’m not going to make up for the time I’ve already lost.”

More cryptic shit, you’re really getting tired of this. “What shit is brewing?”

“You’ll see in just about a month.” And he sighs, a full body expelling of breath that leaves him sagging, looking all his 29 years and you hate seeing him like this. You push close again, forcing him to pay attention to you and stop with this depressing, confusing, mysterious crap. He chuckles a little and runs his fingers through your hair.

If you could freeze this moment forever, you would. The closest you can do is live as close to him as possible in this moment, make it something worth remembering and cherishing on muggy, lonely nights.

And so you nuzzle in, press your lips against his unabashedly, and hold on.


End file.
